Spellmaker

CHAPTER 6

“It’s rather unexpected,” Duchess Morris said as her maid handed her a cup of tea, “but I am formally trained, of course. I know the atheneums do a poor job at upholding the bounds of propriety.”

Duchess Morris’s parlor was large and bright, full windows letting in gray, rain-choked light. On one wall hung an enormous portrait of the duchess herself, and on the opposite wall hung a markedly smaller portrait of an older man Elsie assumed to be her husband. The floor and fireplace were marble, the drapes and carpets navy, the ceiling painted with fleur-de-lis. Duchess Morris sat in an elaborate armchair, while Elsie and Bacchus occupied a stiff velvet sofa. Elsie had worn her best dress today, but it didn’t feel fancy enough in this posh house.

At the mention of propriety, Duchess Morris’s eyes raked between Elsie and Bacchus, even dropping down to Elsie’s hand. All the temporal and physical runes lending to her beauty, some of which Elsie had jarred loose some days prior, were firmly back in place. “Are you overseeing her training, Master Kelsey? Does this mean you’re secretly a spellbreaker?”

Secretly a spellbreaker hit a little too close to home and stoked Elsie’s nerves.

Bacchus, thankfully, smoothly accepted his tea—Elsie refused hers, worried she’d fumble it—and answered, “Not exactly. Miss Camden is my fiancée.”

My fiancée. The words washed over her like an autumn breeze.

“Is that so?” Duchess Morris perked up, examining Elsie again. “Why, what an interesting pair.”

Elsie wanted to demand what she meant by that, but thought it best to hold her tongue. So far, Duchess Morris had not recognized her as the clumsy woman in the millinery, and she needed to stay on her good side if she was to uncover any information about Master Merton.

“I was fortunate,” Elsie said, tasting the falsehoods in her mouth, “to have an aspector so close by during my time of discovery.” Granted, she worked for an aspector, but Duchess Morris didn’t know that.

“I imagine so. To think, waking up one day and . . . magic!” She chortled. “To not have to work with it day in and day out from youth up. How lucky you are, Miss Camden.”

Elsie forced herself not to grit her teeth. “Very lucky, indeed.”

“But, Master Kelsey”—she turned her attention to Bacchus—“I don’t know how you tolerate Kent. I hear the place is falling apart with rot.”

Elsie could feel Bacchus tense beside her. After all, it had likely been Duchess Morris who had placed the rot curses on the Duke of Kent’s fields—curses Elsie had since unraveled. She placed a hand on Bacchus’s forearm and answered on his behalf. “Oh, it’s a modest place, for sure. Very cozy. Though I am rather stunned by your own estate, Duchess Morris. It’s so . . . fashionable. I would love a tour if you have time for it.”

Duchess Morris smiled. “I might be able to arrange one. You have good taste, Miss Camden. Now”—she set down her tea—“what questions do you have for me?”

Elsie went through the interrogation she’d rehearsed that morning, questions she thought would sound official and scholarly, pertinent to a spellbreaker. She started with simple ones, about the spiritual discipline and its effects, then went personal. Why had Duchess Morris chosen that discipline? How had magic affected her life? And then brought it back around—when had Duchess Morris needed a spellbreaker, and how efficient were they?

“I don’t often hire them. I’m essentially retired from magic. A lady of my stature doesn’t work.” She twisted a dark curl around her index finger and released it. Bacchus had once said Duchess Morris had burned out, which meant she’d reached the peak of her learnable spells and could no longer progress, but Elsie knew better than to mention it. “But on occasion a hired hand will make a mistake. The usual.”

Or you need to change the shape of your nose, she thought. Feeling the duchess at ease, Elsie tried, “If you’ll excuse the interjection, Duchess Morris, something about you is very familiar. You’re not the kind of woman who can be mistaken for anyone else.”

She seemed pleased by the assertion. “Is that so?”

“Yes.” She glanced to Bacchus. “Is it . . . Are you chummy with Master Merton, by chance?”

Her face lit up. “I am! How did you know?”

Bacchus said, “Master Merton has dined with the Duke and Duchess of Kent on numerous occasions.”

Duchess Morris rolled her eyes. “Oh, I’m not surprised. She’s all about recruitment, especially for women, for whatever reason. She’ll go just about anywhere. She doesn’t have an estate or family of her own to attend to, so she has the time.”

Elsie squeezed Bacchus’s arm, as if to say, I know, she’s ridiculous. Just wait it out a little longer.

Picking through the duchess’s words, Elsie grabbed on to what felt most useful. “No estate? Has she not been in her mastership for some time?”

“Oh, yes. Shortly before I earned mine.” Duchess Morris again toyed with her hair. “But she has no natural inheritance. She’s not even English, you know.”

Elsie started. “She’s not?” She looked English, sounded English.

“Oh yes.” She waved a bored hand, as though the conversation had lost her interest now that the focus had drifted from her. “Fled Russia with her parents during that war. They died off somehow, and she wound up in a workhouse somewhere around here. She mentioned it once a long time ago, in school.”

Elsie’s mind was racing enough to kick up dust. Russia? Did Duchess Morris mean the Crimean War? Merton was certainly old enough; she had to be nearing sixty. She would have been . . . what, Emmeline’s age when that happened?

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Bacchus said, covering for Elsie’s silent stupor.

“Oh, yes.” Elsie nodded. “That is tragic.”

Duchess Morris shrugged. “It was a long time ago. She never talks of it anymore. You know how some people are, bringing up their sad stories over and over again for attention. Not Lily.”

Pressing her luck, Elsie asked, “Do you remember how she made it to the atheneum? Workhouses . . . are hard to leave behind.” She knew from experience. And spellmaking was expensive, besides.

The duchess sighed. “The only way poor riffraff can, Miss Camden. She made the sponsorship lottery.”

Bacchus said, “And you took her under your wing. How very kind of you, to reach out to someone so below your station.”

A surprising shock of sadness flashed across Duchess Morris’s face. “Oh, of course. There was a time when . . .” She sat up straighter in her chair. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. Do you have any more questions for me?”

“Oh please, Duchess Morris.” Elsie clamped her hands together in the folds of her skirt. “I would love to hear your tale of charity.” Tell us everything you can, please.

The duchess pursed her lips and studied Elsie. For a moment, Elsie worried she had gone too far. But the kind words must have had the intended effect, for Duchess Morris’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. “It was so long ago. Let’s just say my fool father took it into his head to humble the entirety of his family.” She sniffed. “So I suppose Lily and I took each other under wing, until I made my match.” She gestured weakly to the portrait of the duke on the wall. “Lily is a good person. Quite the Christian, donating to peace efforts and, I don’t know, feeding the poor or some nonsense. Always was dedicated to her sponsor more than anyone else. She even supported him financially, in his old age. Very distraught when he passed on. I haven’t seen Lily since . . .”

Duchess Morris tapped her chin. If she was thinking back, she might be considering the hat shop and the incident there—

Elsie tapped Bacchus’s shoe with her own.

“Thank you for your time, Duchess Morris,” he said without missing a beat. He stood and offered his hand to Elsie for her to do the same. He looked especially large in this room, somehow, or perhaps that was because Duchess Morris was barely over five feet. The way she carried herself, one would think she wasn’t aware of her petite stature.

“Oh, my pleasure. Always happy to help.” She smiled. Elsie didn’t mention the tour, and Duchess Morris seemed to have forgotten, for she didn’t initiate another invitation. She saw them into the hallway, where a smartly dressed servant escorted them to the door.

Elsie barely noticed the passing of distance between the house and the victoria. Crimean War. Lost mother. Charitable donations. Master Merton seemed to fit the mold of a serial murderer even less, knowing all of that.

It wasn’t until Bacchus pulled the carriage around that Elsie said, “Do you think it bothered her, swearing allegiance to Britain? I would never have thought her Russian. She speaks so elegantly, wears all the English fashions—”

“Elsie,” he said, nodding as another servant opened the gates for them. “When you are an outsider, you do what you have to do to fit in, or people will ostracize you. Sometimes without even realizing it. If Master Merton wanted to succeed in spiritual magic here in London, she would have had to assimilate so thoroughly that others would forget she was ever different. It is a necessity, for people like us.”

That gave Elsie pause. She studied Bacchus, the darkness of his skin, the length of his hair, his height and breadth. He’d held on to his English accent, not slipping into his natural one, like he had before. His father was English, but his mother was Algarve, and he’d been raised in Barbados. He dressed like an Englishman, spoke like an Englishman, but he didn’t look like one. Elsie had forgotten he was different.

No wonder Alexandra Wright had been staring.

“Have I offended you?” She found herself holding her breath, waiting for his response.

“No.” He slipped the reins into his left hand and reached over with his right, covering her fingers with his palm. “No, you haven’t.” She wondered if his Bajan tones came through naturally or if he let them in to reassure her. “But it is easy to miss the pain of being different when you fit in so well with the standard.”

She nodded. Dared to lift her other hand and place it atop his. “I suppose you’re right.” She thought of Ogden, of his confessions. He was different, too, and hid it remarkably well. “I wonder what sort of pains Master Merton has borne in her lifetime. And why they’ve made her behave the way she has.”

Because if Lily Merton wanted peace, as Duchess Morris claimed, why was she killing so many people? Why the grab for power?

And what did the American have to do with any of it?

Elsie felt closer to finding answers. The only problem was that she seemed to acquire more questions at every turn.

It was oddly difficult to get back into a daily routine after being imprisoned.

Elsie managed it anyway, ordering materials for Ogden, who had blessedly gotten two more commissions. One was from the hateful squire, who had decided to commission a bust of himself, as if the people who visited his home didn’t know perfectly well what he looked like. The other was from out of town. Ogden needed the distraction just as much as Elsie did. When he wasn’t slinking around London, prying into strangers’ minds, he was quiet, unlike himself, sketching and murmuring under his breath.

Elsie was more than happy to spend her morning trekking to the squire’s estate, for while she didn’t like the man—it really was a pity he wasn’t the murderer—she quite enjoyed his steward, Mr. Parker. Polite and to the point, he passed along the measurements and other information she needed with admirable efficiency. Elsie wondered if Ogden would notice if she altered the sculpture before it set—giving the squire an unseemly mole or a crooked tooth. Then again, if she got Ogden put out of his job, she’d be put out of hers, too.

Fortunately, she’d have a husband to support her if that happened.

She tripped on nothing as she trekked back through town, catching herself and managing not to drop the satchel with her employer’s papers in it. Husband. It all seemed like a very odd dream, didn’t it? The worst part was that they still hadn’t discussed their plans. How would Bacchus balance Barbados and England? Or perhaps he wouldn’t balance them at all. For all she knew, he intended to let her live in a townhouse in London, while he fled to Barbados and grabbed a mistress or two. That would be a fair compromise, wouldn’t it?

If only the thought didn’t form such a deep pit in her stomach. It would have been rather nice to be engaged after a pleasant courtship. To be sure of wanting.

“Oh, Miss Camden!”

Elsie winced at the sound of the familiar voice behind her, and kept walking as though she hadn’t heard. Increased her pace.

“Miss Camden!”

Gritting her teeth, then relaxing her jaw, Elsie turned around, shielding her eyes from the sun despite her bonnet already doing it for her. “Oh, Misses Wright. How are you today?”

Rose and Alexandra Wright scrambled to her, kicking up dust as they went. “We are absolutely beside ourselves with glee,” the latter said, bouncing on her toes.

Elsie adjusted her satchel. “Whatever for?”

“Whatever for?” Rose Wright repeated, a hand pressed to her breast. “Why, your engagement!”

It wouldn’t have been in the papers already. Not that Elsie had to ask, for Alexandra Wright pushed in, “We spoke to Emmeline after you left yesterday! Quite a fine carriage, if I say so myself.”

“Of course you did,” Elsie said.

“A very fine carriage,” her sister agreed. “And quite a man.”

“A foreigner,” Alexandra piped in, as though Elsie didn’t know.

“Yes,” said Rose, “tell me, is he Turkish?”

Elsie resisted the urge to tell these women that they had no right to any of her personal information, especially since they couldn’t care less about her well-being when she wasn’t at the center of gossip. “He’s from Barbados.”

“Barbados!” Rose repeated, and her sister said, “Where is that?”

“Near Turkey,” Elsie lied.

Alexandra turned to Rose. “Well, that makes sense, doesn’t it? You were right, again.”

“Is he an officer?” Rose asked.

Elsie glanced around, wishing someone would come interrupt them. “An officer? In the army?”

“No, in the police force,” Alexandra said.

“We saw them at the stonemasonry shop last week,” Rose added.

Elsie blanched. “S-Something like that.”

“But,” Alexandra said, more to her sister than to Elsie, “an officer wouldn’t have such a fine carriage, would he?”

Elsie cleared her throat. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

“Oh yes!” Rose cried. “A working woman. I forget sometimes. Won’t that be nice, to have your support taken care of?”

Elsie frowned. “Indeed.”

“Do invite us for tea,” Alexandra pushed in. “It would be so wonderful to catch up.”

Pasting on a smile, Elsie said, “I shall have to do that.”

The sisters giggled in delight and waved their goodbyes, and Elsie hurried away from them. She’d rather be spoon-fed the dry leaves than waste tea on those two ninnies. She sighed.

It will all sort itself out, don’t worry.

If only she believed that.

She started for the shortcut to her house, behind the post office, when she saw a woman standing outside a curricle, holding a piece of paper to her face, spying around near the bank. She looked to be in her early thirties, with pale-brown hair pinned up from her face and a smart hat on top. The sun glinted off a delicate pair of silver spectacles on her nose. Elsie didn’t recognize her. She wouldn’t be from Clunwood, Brookley’s neighbor to the south. She was dressed too genteelly, and there was no driver in the carriage behind her, which suggested it might belong to her.

Checking the road for passersby, Elsie quickly crossed and approached her.

“Pardon me,” she tried, “but are you lost?”

A look of relief washed over the woman’s features. “Indeed I am, thank you. I’ve already asked for directions twice, and I swear the gentlemen told me differing things.”

Elsie smiled. “Men will do that. Where are you headed?”

The woman showed her the paper in her hand, upon which was scrawled a familiar address. “To the stonemasonry shop. There is a stonemason, isn’t there? Otherwise I’ll have to head back to London and start all over again.”

She chuckled. “There is, in fact. I’m on my way there now.”

“Bless you.” She tucked her paper away and followed Elsie down the road. “I hear he’s an aspector.”

Bells of alarm rang in Elsie’s ears, until she remembered the ruse about Ogden’s aspecting. “He is, a physical one. Only a novice, but the spells he does know aid his handiwork, which is quite excellent.”

“Glad to hear it. Oh, look at that.” She pointed at the narrow road leading off the high street. “I think I walked right past that and didn’t notice.”

They passed the cobbler and continued down the road. The clouds were parted today, letting the heat of the sun press down fully. Elsie was relieved to step out of it, and held the door open for the stranger.

Emmeline looked up from the other end of the studio, broom in hand. She noticed the woman. “Oh, hello.”

“Hello!” she called, and stepped around the desk and into the studio, offering a hand to Emmeline. “My name is Irene Prescott. You must be Elsie Camden?”

Emmeline shook her head. “You just walked in with her, ma’am.”

Miss Prescott turned around. “Oh my, I should have introduced myself.”

Elsie’s wrists itched as though she’d broken four dozen spells. “I should have done that myself.” What do you want? “How might I help you?”

Miss Prescott crossed the room once more, extending a hand to Elsie, which she hesitantly shook. “Did you not get my letter?”

“Post is late,” Emmeline said.

“Ah, well.” Releasing Elsie, Miss Prescott continued, “The board sent me. I’m to register you and start your training as a spellbreaker.”

Elsie gaped, caught herself, and closed her mouth with a click of her teeth. “O-Oh, I see.”

Opening her parcel, Miss Prescott pulled out a sheaf of papers and set them on a cabinet. Turning to Emmeline, she said, “My dear, do you have a pen on hand?”

Emmeline nodded and set the broom aside, hurrying to the cubbies beneath the desk to retrieve a pen and ink.

“I’ll just need you to fill this out.” Miss Prescott slid the papers to Elsie. A quick flip through the pages revealed they were filled with personal questions, about her age, appearance, height, et cetera, as well as her family history. Well, she couldn’t tell the board what she didn’t know.

Licking her lips, Elsie took the pen, reminding herself she needn’t be nervous; this was all part of the plan. Register, train for a while, be free. It might be nice, using her abilities openly. She’d make more money, certainly. Wouldn’t be as much of a burden on Bacchus.

Bacchus.

Elsie found herself writing his name on one of the lines and hurriedly scribbled it out, replacing it with her age.

Miss Prescott smiled. “I often forget my own years.”

Elsie nodded and moved on to the next page.

“Your family history will help us track magical lines,” Miss Prescott pressed.

“I’m an orphan,” Elsie said, unsure if it was true. She began filling out the second page.

Miss Prescott at least was polite enough to sound embarrassed. “Terribly sorry.”

She finished the paperwork and signed her name at the end. Miss Prescott signed hers as well, then organized the papers into a neat stack. “Could have called you in, but I know this is all new, so I thought I’d make the trip out here.”

Elsie straightened, rubbing at a spot of ink on her hand. “Thank you. That’s kind.”

“Though we’ll have to travel a bit for your training,” she continued. “To the atheneums, of course, so we can gather the spells you’ll need to practice breaking. On occasion we’ll have a spellmaker come to us, but they’re a busy lot.”

“I do work, Miss Prescott.”

She clucked sympathetically. “I understand that, though unfortunately this takes precedence. Magic, even simple spellbreaking, can be dangerous if unchecked.”

Simple spellbreaking. Elsie almost snorted. In her opinion, dismantling spells was far more complex than laying them. Spellmakers didn’t even know what their runes looked like. Couldn’t see them, smell them, nothing. But Miss Prescott was correct—the abilities could be dangerous if left untrained. Elsie’s ignorance of spellbreaking had indirectly led to her workhouse burning down when she was ten.

Her thoughts slid to Master Merton.

“Of course,” she said, trying to stay present. “It’s just that, well, I’m getting married within the month.” Her stomach clenched. They hadn’t actually set a date. Had she just pushed Bacchus into a tighter cage?

“Oh! Congratulations. Well, we can work around that.”

Emmeline added, “He’s a spellmaker, too. A master physical aspector.”

Now Miss Prescott’s eyes went wide. “Is he really?”

“Recently promoted.” It sounded more believable that she’d win the heart of an advanced aspector over a master aspector. The class difference wasn’t as stark. Though now that she would be a registered spellbreaker, her own status would improve. A spellbreaker would never merit a title, but the role carried prestige, nonetheless. Spellbreakers were necessary. But being a spellmaker . . . that term alone meant one had money.

“Well, perhaps we’ll be able to use his services.” She put the papers in her bag. “I’ll be contacting you shortly. I saw a post office, so I presume a telegram is fine?”

Elsie nodded.

Miss Prescott extended her hand once more, and Elsie shook it. “Lovely again to make your acquaintance, Miss Camden. And don’t worry—in a few years, you’ll be ready to take on the world.”

Elsie smiled, trying not to make her grip too tight. A few years?

God help her, this would be the longest ruse she’d ever pulled.

God help her.